there’s something in the way
we are

when, usually, i am compelled to talk
of nothing to disarm
the threat of ever
intrusive silence, i can sit with you
and you with

i

sometimes catch
a snippet
of suicidal heaven
encapsulated
in a puddle at my feet

sometimes there’s something in the way

harmonic blues pulse with-
in the footsteps that stalk
the veins that threaten
my heart
                     thump thump


history’s shared
not futures
like second hand smoke
at a bar at 3am
i’m nothing at 4am
i’m still
                     thump thump


only good at passing
out
behind locked doors
                             thump...


he looked
so tired…
with his well-i-have-my-dreams-while-i’m-awake eyes

am i supposed to feel
something? coz he doesn’t
sleep? or i don’t
dream?

something seems so desperate
so wasteful
like lyrics drowning
the handsome soul
of a blues note

there’s something in the way.
we are.

you—a lonely busker in a lonely street
me—a tired worker going home to dreamless sleep

there’s something in the way
we are. strangers
are always just strangers.
                                   ...thump.